Perhaps our lives are measured by
The days and years until we die,
Or maybe by the loves we’ve known,
Or children raised and on their own.
How sad to know that some are gauged
By precious moments lost and aged—
A shard of broken memory
I’ll treasure for eternity.
The music of those moments passed,
Forgotten as the years amassed.
But looking back, it matters not—
The song was but a childish plot
To hold her then or not at all—
And in that closeness I recall,
A sweetness not unlike the bloom
Of summer jonquils’ faint perfume.
She gave to me a single dance
And nevermore a wayward glance—
A fleeting time of sweetened bliss
That left me deep in love’s abyss.
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